At long last he raised his head and smiled down at her. “I was not disappointed.”
“Nor was I.” She grinned. “Although I did note the carpet is a bit threadbare and not at all comfortable and should be replaced as soon as possible.”
He laughed. Then, slowly, with a reluctance that matched her own, he withdrew from her and got to his feet. She sat up and studied him. She was not embarrassed at all to be sitting on her floor in nothing but her stockings, wondering precisely when she had lost her slippers. Not the tiniest bit abashed at staring at a naked man in her parlor. Of course she was well used to appreciating nude figures in finely carved marble for their artistic merits. And Richard was rather magnificent without his clothing and extremely artistic. He reached out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet and into his arms. And much, much warmer than marble.
His body pressed against hers. She rested her head on his chest and sent a silent prayer of gratitude for this man at the top of her list.
A knock sounded on the parlor door.
“My lady, if you are no longer in need of my services I should like to retire for the evening,” Wilkins’s annoyed voice called through the door.
A hot blush burned her cheeks. “Good Lord, what must he be thinking?”
Richard raised a brow. “All manner of scandalous things, I should think.” He kissed her lightly on her forehead. “Each and every one of them quite true.”
“Madame?” Wilkins said impatiently.
“Retire, Wilkins,” Richard called. “Lady Gillian has no further need of you tonight.”
Wilkins muttered something Gillian couldn’t make out. She considered that for the best.
“I, too, should take my leave.” Richard stepped away from her, glanced around, located his clothes, and began to dress.
She picked u her gown and slipped it over her head, wondering at the odd and glorious turn the night had taken. She didn’t regret it. Not at all.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned back against him. His voice was soft against her ear. “I should go.”
“Should you?”
He nibbled at the curve where her shoulder met her neck. “If I don’t leave now, I shall never leave.”
Shivers coursed through her at his touch. “Then never leave.”
“One day.” He paused. “Perhaps.”
She sighed with contentment. “One day.”
He released her and she turned to say goodbye, but he was already at the door.
“Gillian.” He nodded, gave her a strange, remote smile, then pulled the doors open and vanished. The outer door opened and closed, and she was alone.
She stared where he had been, and her own smile faded.
“One day. Perhaps.”
What on earth had he meant by that? He wouldn’t have to leave when they were married, and they would be wed now. She’d proved, rather well she thought, that she could be completely and fully his wife. Share his bed, or his carpet, without reserve. There were no further impediments to their marriage.
Or were there? Richard hadn’t mentioned their arrangement. Nor had he actually kissed her, now that she thought about it. At least not on her lips. Perhaps it hadn’t been a time of his own choosing. She laughed to herself. Not that she’d noticed. Still, regardless of whether he’d truly kissed her or not, there was no doubt that he hadn’t brought up their marriage. Why on earth not?
And why hadn’t she?
She sank down onto the settee. A dozen thoughts tumbled through her head. She could marry him now and get her inheritance and with it financial independence. She would have more than enough to support artists like Emma and the unknown woman who had saved her soul. Richard would have the money he needed for his estates and his sisters’ dowries. Everything had worked out for everyone’s benefit. Hadn’t it?
She’d wondered if she was falling in love with Richard and whether that was the source of her fear. But there had been no fear in Richard’s arms tonight—only passion. Yet hadn’t she felt precisely the same passion with Toussaint? Had the artist been right when he’d said she was afraid not of feeling too much but of feeling nothing at all?
Was passion enough to justify marriage? She hadn’t wanted it, and certainly hadn’t expected it, when she’d come up with the idea of marrying Richard. One could even consider what they shared something of a delightful bonus.
Did she love Richard? Or did she only want him? And could she really marry a man she didn’t love? She could have done just that when this had all begun and was nothing more than an absurd solution to a difficult problem. But now …
It was all confusing and ironic. Gillian had always believed there was no reason other than love to marry. Her inheritance had forced her to think otherwise. Now, she was back to where she’d started.
She got to her feet and slowly crossed the room, stopping to pick up her petticoat and a lone shoe. Unanswered questions filled her head. Was it love she feared? Or was it loving Richard?
And what of Richard? Was he as confused as she? Or was there some other reason why he’d left tonight in such an odd and abrupt manner?
And what role did Toussaint play in all this? Why was his touch as intoxicating as Richard’s? She’d lived her life since Charles had died without any man affecting her the way either of them did. She would have sworn what she felt for Richard was at least the beginning of love. But if it was nothing more than lust with Toussaint, was it nothing more with Richard as well?
And what would she have to do to find out?
In the meantime, she had to speak to Emma. At some point, they’d reveal her painting to Richard, but not quite yet. And if they were going to keep Emma’s secret, the girl would have to be more careful.
Gillian hadn’t noticed it earlier in the evening, and it was so subtle that it might well have escaped attention altogether. But at some point, when she and Richard had been alone, in those few brief moments when she’d been aware of her surroundings and her senses had been most acute, she’d noted it.
The faint, but unmistakable, scent of turpentine.
Chapter 11
The jar shattered against the far wall.
“Bloody hell.”
Richard impatiently pushed his hair away from his face and glared at the fingers of cobalt blue reaching toward the floor. In the early morning light the stain resembled a huge, vividly hued spider smashed against the wall by a giant hand. Even if it was fairly inexpensive, he could scarcely afford to squander premixed pigment this way. Especially since it gave him no satisfaction whatsoever.
For the first time, his work failed to absorb him completely. Failed to occupy his mind, his soul. No doubt because the subject of his work was the one thing already occupying his mind. Perhaps even his soul.
Gillian.
He kicked the stool out of his way and paced the room, refusing to so much as glance at the portrait. At the eyes that followed him: one minute reproaching, the next inviting. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged the skill needed to achieve such an illusion, but at the moment he would have preferred to be a talentless dabbler. It would have been much easier.
How could he have been such a coward? Certainly he had apologized for what he’d said, but he hadn’t had the courage to acknowledge the truth. At least not aloud. If there was a whore in their relationship, it was not Gillian. She was only trying to get what she should have had from the start without ridiculous conditions attached. No, he was the one who was willing to sell himself for profit. Willing to wed in exchange for half her fortune and far more than she’d ever intended.
And what did he offer her in return? His name? He snorted in disdain, strode to a table, and pawed through the assorted debris of his daily life. Hadn’t there been a bottle of brandy here somewhere? His name was scarcely worth more than the effort it took to scrawl it on a slip of paper. Oh, certainly he was doing all he could to restore the honor of the ancient and noble Shelton name. To return it to a position of
respect held by the Earls of Shelbrooke before his father had ground it into the mud.
Still, hadn’t the fortune his father had squandered been in truth brought to the family in the first place by his mother? Hadn’t it been his mother’s dowry and inheritance that had shored up the already sagging Shelton finances? Hadn’t his father married his mother for only one reason?
He found the bottle, pulled out the stopper, and drank greedily. Even the burn of the inferior liquor didn’t wash away the bad taste in his mouth.
The blood of the father …
He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand and stared unseeing at the paint stain on the wall. His father had wed for no better reason than to improve his lot in life.
… the veins of the son.
He gripped the bottle until his knuckles whitened. Was there any difference between his father’s actions and his own?
The blue spider throbbed accusingly.
He hefted the bottle in his hand and drew back. Hadn’t he been following his father’s footsteps until—
Until he’d had no other choice.
Until his father’s death had altered his life forever. He lowered the bottle slowly.
Until the man he’d been well on his way to becoming had been forced by circumstances to become something else entirely. Something more than his father ever expected. Something more than he himself expected.
A man at the top of the list.
An odd sense of calm descended on him. He set the bottle on the table gently, as if it were made of the finest crystal. As fragile as the realization that swept through him.
He was wrong.
He had had any number of choices at his father’s death. He could have forced Emma to marry. Abandoned his sisters altogether. Washed his hands of all of them, as well as Shelbrooke Manor and the people dependent on the estate. He could have continued his disreputable ways, surviving on credit and gaming and whatever else came along.
His father’s blood flowed through his veins and, perhaps, some of his traits as well, but he was not his father. His father had succumbed to his weaknesses, allowed them to destroy his life and devastate his children.
Richard had chosen to take another path. And that was the difference between sire and offspring.
He laced his fingers behind his neck and stared out the high windows into the lightening skies of morning.
Apparently, he was a better man than he ever thought he’d be. Otherwise he would have claimed Gillian’s hand last night before he’d so much as recovered his trousers. If it was pride that insisted she share his bed if they married, what was it now that made him hesitate to exact his prize? She’d obviously overcome whatever fear she’d had, and there was no doubt she’d wanted him. Wanted him with the same surprising intensity with which he’d wanted her. Wanted her even now, if the truth were told. Wanted her … always?
And he could have her and her inheritance without delay and with as little effort as it took to procure a special license and say a few meaningless vows.
Wasn’t that precisely what he’d intended all along?
Blast it all, he didn’t seem to know anything when it came to Gillian—with the exception of her response to Toussaint. He was all too aware of his feelings about that. Every time he thought about her minimal resistance to his attention, his irritation increased. Why, the woman had nearly succumbed to his advances without so much as a respectable struggle. Certainly that was his original plan, yet it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he had envisioned.
It may well be time to end the sittings altogether. There was no need for Toussaint’s attempts at seduction when Richard had already succeeded. Even so, she had found a confidant of sorts in the artist, and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to know what was going on in the vixen’s mind.
Not that he had so much as a vague inkling of what was going on in his own mind. He hadn’t the least idea anymore of what he really wanted. And how he wanted to get it.
He needed to sort through his confusing thoughts, his odd feelings and everything else. Needed a place where bewitching blue eyes didn’t follow his every move. Painting had always freed his thoughts to deal with other matters, but apparently not when the work was the subject of his quandary.
There were other forms of labor that would serve the same purpose, and more than enough of them awaited him at Shelbrooke Manor. He’d neglected the estate shamefully in recent weeks, far too caught up in furthering Toussaint’s career. And then came this business with Gillian.
Society would no more tolerate an earl performing manual labor than it would a titled gentleman painting for a living. Nor would it understand why a man in his position would hesitate for a moment to marry a woman whose fortune would ensure he never had to do either again.
He heaved a frustrated sigh. Damnation. He only wished he understood it himself.
“Richard’s gone.” Emma glanced up from the note in her hand.
“What do you mean Richard’s gone?” Gillian drew her brows together in disbelief.
“That scruffy lad brought yet another note, my lady,” Wilkins said with an air of disdain.
Gillian shot him an impatient glance. Wilkins shrugged as if to say it was none of his business if communication in London had fallen to so lowly a level, and left the room. “What does it say, Emma? Where has he gone?”
“Home.”
“Why?” Surely Emma was mistaken. A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
Emma scanned the page. “He doesn’t say exactly, only that he has matters to attend to and should return by the end of the week.”
“The end of the week.” A good three days from now. Her heart sank with disappointment and, perhaps, a touch of pain. How could he leave without telling her? How could he leave her now? How could he leave her at all? She struggled to keep her voice level. “He didn’t say a word last night.”
“Perhaps something unexpected has happened,” Emma said hopefully.
“Perhaps.” Something unexpected had indeed happened, but right here in this very room. Something exciting and important to them both. At least Gillian thought so. She still wasn’t certain of her true feelings or his, but how on earth was she expected to determine anything with him away? The one thing she had no doubt about was her desire to be with him.
Aside from everything else between them, her grandmother’s annual house party was at the end of the week, and she’d planned on inviting Richard to accompany her.
Regardless of what they had or hadn’t said last night, they’d been seen together publicly at Lady Forester’s ball. Nothing the slightest bit out of the ordinary ever went unnoticed there. The attentions of the standoffish Earl of Shelbrooke to the unapproachable Lady Gillian were definitely the stuff gossip was made of.
By now, her parents, aunts, uncles, assorted cousins, and anyone else associated with the Effington family had already heard enough to have them all wondering about her relationship with Richard.
If she didn’t appear at the yearly gathering, it was entirely possible someone, even a full delegation, would be appointed to find out exactly what was going on. And that could well lead to the discovery of her great-uncle’s legacy and its accompanying conditions.
Not that it mattered in the long run. Oh, certainly her parents would insist she give up the idea of marrying merely to gain her fortune. They were an odd family, all in all, with very definite ideas about such things.
No, the duke and duchess would not approve one bit and would pressure her to accept more financial support from them than she already did. She clenched her jaw in determination. They were a persistent lot, but she was just as stubborn, and she would not allow them to dissuade her.
However, her life would be a great deal easier if they knew as little as possible for the moment. Besides, she was no longer certain what, if anything, the legacy had to do with her plans to marry Richard.
And she certainly couldn’t find out if Richard was nowhere to be found.
�
�Your brother is something of a coward, isn’t he?” Gillian said thoughtfully.
“Richard? Of course not.” Emma bristled. “He’s really quite courageous.”
“Is he?”
“I think so. I think it takes a great deal of courage to change your life the way he has.” Emma’s eyes flashed. “He didn’t have to, you know. He could have abandoned all of us out in the country and left us to fend for ourselves.
“Father had already arranged for some beastly man to marry me, and Richard put an end to that. He has refused to allow any of us to turn governess, although we could certainly use the money. Furthermore, he’s doing something, I have no idea what, but he assures us it is not against the law, and it’s apparently proving quite successful. I’m assuming it’s some kind of business endeavor, but Richard won’t say, probably because society would never accept an earl actually earning a living wage. But he’s managed to pay off all of his debts and many of Father’s—”
“Whatever could he be doing?” Gillian said more to herself than to Emma. She hadn’t really thought about it before, but Emma was right. If indeed Richard was making inroads into the debts left by his father, quite extensive from what she understood, he had to be earning money in some way.
“—and he’s certainly not squandering money on himself. Why, he won’t even show me where he stays when he’s here in London. He says his rooms are not an appropriate place for a proper lady.” “
Indeed.” How very odd to realize she too had no idea where Richard lived. Or for that matter, how he spent his days. In point of fact, while she thought she knew rather a lot about the man, there was apparently a great deal she didn’t know.
“He has no carriage, merely a single horse. And his clothes—”
“His coats are always shabby,” Gillian murmured, wondering why she found his frayed cuffs rather endearing.
“Exactly,” Emma nodded. “Beyond that, when he is home, he helps the tenants with planting or harvesting. He mends fences and works in the stables and does all manner of things no other man of his position would lower himself to do.”
The Husband List Page 15